


Deserving

by Dribbledscribbles



Category: The Magnus Archives
Genre: Because while I love Helen as a character, Fluff, M/M, So yeah, and I know in my heart that Martin wouldn't let that kind of bullshit fester, cw: self-mutilation attempt mention, cw: suicide attempt mention, that line about not deserving Martin was a Low Blow and a half
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23894677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dribbledscribbles/pseuds/Dribbledscribbles
Summary: Helen’s words had more of an effect on Jon than Martin expected.He won’t stand for another round of self-loathing, damn it.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood
Comments: 52
Kudos: 758





	Deserving

Jon was quieter after Helen’s visit. He still talked when spoken to, still responded, still needed the odd reminder to turn down his Morose Monologue now and then, but was otherwise hushed. Worse, there was a particular look in his face. A shadow of that old self-loathing devastation that had come over him after the fits.

Those, long, wretched, screaming, laughing, hating, begging fits that had taken him when the Change first took over. There’d been— 

Just once, he’d caught Jon trying to—

Well. He’d been caught. Put the razor down, bringing it away from his eyes. The cuts had healed.

“I’ve been trying,” he’d rasped, voice hoarse. “But I can’t get rid of them now.” He’d touched his throat, still tacky with a telltale redness that had made Martin tip wildly out of alignment with his own body, his soul falling loose as he realized exactly what Jon had been up to since he’d dozed off. Jon had rubbed his freshly-scarred Adam’s apple, no cut to be seen. “I can’t get rid of any of me.”

To call that early period rough would be to call a mountain an anthill. But it had passed. Was still passing, Martin thought. Hoped.

But now that awful look was back. That grim expression that drew its mourning, guilty lines down his lean face which would, given enough time, become Jon’s default countenance. And Martin was absolutely not about to have that again.

“Jon?”

“Mm?”

“What is it?”

“What’s what?”

“What’s got you doing the face again?”

“What? What face?”

“The face you’re making right now. The one that says, ‘Alas, I am the Bane of All Things, I am Guilt Incarnate, Cue Violins.’ That one.”

“It’s just my face, Martin.”

“Yeah, it’s starting to be. Let me rephrase. Why are you going sullen again?”

“Not like there’s a lack of reasons, is there?”

“You were okay for a while. Before Helen.” Martin adjusted and readjusted the straps on his pack. His own guilt simmered somewhere in the back of his throat. “You do know not to take even half of what she said at face value, right? Her whole thing is, you know, Distortion of the truth. And you and I have been over the matter of culpability a thousand times now. You may have opened the Door, but you were a key, not the hand of the asshole in the tower who turned it. That’s all Elias, and you Know she knew that. She was just—being her.”

“That’s not it,” Jon sighed. “If she thought she was being clever or sinister or whatever, she’s got work to do before she comes within spitting distance of the things I’ve told myself. A bit lackluster in the insults, if I’m being honest.”

“Then what is it?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“She was right. About me not deserving, well, anything of you. Devotion, friendship. Love. Objectively, it’s true.”

“What, and you asked the evil Magic 8 Ball up there about this?”

“I did.”

“What?”

“I-I asked the Beholding. Just, just in my head.”

“…And?”

“And it didn’t answer. Helen was right on that too. Me and the Eye, we operate too much in fact rather than what-ifs and emotion. If it’s not a solid Truth, it’s not worth Knowing, apparently. But it doesn’t change the fact that, looking at all prior and present evidence, you deserve better than m—,”

“Jonathan Sims, you shut your mouth right now.”

Jon shut it. Martin prayed to whatever power might listen to give him strength and tranquility and the kind of mental balance that would keep him from hoisting Jon up by the shoulders and shaking him. He sucked a breath in through his nose.

“Sit down.”

“I—a-are you tired?”

“The Eye on a stick isn’t going anywhere and the next nightmare sightseeing will wait. Sit with me.”

“Okay…”

They found a spot that didn’t have too much eldritch, slithering flora blooming. Jon waited. Martin counted backward from twenty. 

“Jon. Before we go any further, I want to make sure something is very clear to you. Crystal. Something that will not change in your mind no matter what any avatar or bogeyman or, and I’ll bet money on this, whatever Elias will try to needle you with. I love you. You knew that already, but, for clarity’s sake, I need you to know the facts behind it. Behind us. Alright?

“Fact one, you are the biggest, most maudlin ball of self-loathing I have ever met. Nine out of ten bad things that go wrong, you blame yourself for, and suspect you’re responsible for the tenth. Any good thing that happens to cross your path—provided anything good crossed any of us back in the day—you didn’t think you deserved it. Just because you were you. Ergo, your perspective’s tainted. You are not in any position to see what we have, what we are so goddamn lucky to have found in each other, quote, ‘objectively.’ You’re just not. Right?”

“Right. I guess.” Jon mumbled. “But—,”

“Mouth. Shut.”

Jon shut it again.

“Fact two, what kind of rubric are you operating on that says you don’t deserve me? That we don’t deserve each other? Yes, please answer.”

“…I was awful to you. I heard the tape, you know. Back during the Unknowing, when you were burning the statements. Elias is a shit-sucking liar, but he was right about—about me. About how I was to you. God, I—,”

“You’re sorry, you’re so sorry, you were a prick, you were mean, you were a grouchy boss, and on and on into a hundred other apologies _you’ve already given me ad nauseum._ Jon, I get it. I get where all that comes from, I appreciate the several trees’ worth of olive branches, but you know what? I think we’re pretty well fucking past that stage! More than that, I think you must have lost, like, three quarters’ worth of memory from that period, because you only seem to recall,” Martin held his thumb and index finger a centimeter apart, “this much. Only the worst parts. The bits where you were stressed and prickly and still trying to act twenty years older than you were. Between all of that?

“You grew on everyone. All of us, Jon. Tim, Sasha, definitely me. You were funny. You were fun. You gave all of us whiplash the day we found out about your musical stint in uni—,”

“Still don’t see why it was such a big deal—,”

“You were in a space opera cabaret band! You looked, walked, and talked like the embodiment of a store that sells tweed jackets, and Tim catches you chatting up your bandmates on the sidewalk, looking like a professor talking to his punk students.” Martin put on his best impression of Tim. “‘Oh, who are they, Jon?’ he asks. ‘Just my old bandmates,’ says you. ‘Bullshit,’ says Tim. And the lot of you drop into that song—the one about a pump?”

“Pump Shanty.”

“That one. And you aged Tim thirty years in three minutes out of pure shock.” Martin felt a laugh crawling up his throat and let it out. “Then he drags you in, all sputtering and red, and—,”

“I remember,” Jon got out, going red all over again. The corners of his mouth tried to twitch up. “Didn’t realize he’d filmed the thing until after—,”

“That, yeah, and all the lovely YouTube videos. We spent the rest of the week having a crisis outside your office, wondering what the hell to think of reality any more. Which did _not_ help my crush at all, by the way. But yeah. You could be a prick sometimes. But those times were in the minority. And, you know, for the record? Even before we all got to know each other and I started getting properly smitten? I,” Martin cleared his throat and looked anywhere but at Jon’s face, “I, ah, may have been. You know. Into it. A bit.”

Jon pulled a face.

“Into what?”

“Right. Okay, I know you’re ace, I get that. But you get that I am very, very gay, right?”

“Right..?”

“Right. Now, just for a second, I want you to put yourself back in your old mindset. As far back to proto-Mr. Sims as possible. Imagine I, I don’t know, spilled tea on a statement, or dropped a folder full of stuff on the floor, something that got your hackles up. Are you there?”

“Um.” Jon’s face scrunched first in confusion, then resignation, and then, finally, hardened into what approximated an annoyed scowl. “Like this?” 

God, he even had the _tone._

“Yes, hold that, don’t move.” Martin fumbled out his phone—a relic that no longer received or sent calls anymore, but still had an operating camera—and took a shot. “Okay, look.” Jon looked at himself. The sharp V of brows, the slanting jade eyes, the hollows of his cheeks, the overall smoldering glower of him. 

“I look like a prick.”

“You look like the ‘bad boss’ half of a workplace hookup. Now imagine me, still extremely gay, having to look you in the eye every time you gave me this face. Oh, better yet. Ask the Eye. Try to Know exactly what I had going through my head back then. I dare you.”

Jon looked quizzically at him. Then he closed his eyes and the air around his head fuzzed with static. A moment later his eyes popped wide open. If his face had been red before, it was neon now.

“Good Lord, Martin.”

“Yeah. _Yeah_.”

“That’s, uh. That is certainly an unorthodox version of, um, professional reprimanding.” Jon glanced sheepishly at Martin who barely glanced back. “That explains a lot.”

“Ha. Yeah. Bit tricky to not fall over yourself when you’re, you know. Otherwise distracted.”

“I see. Still, being, ah, accidentally…distracting—that doesn’t qualify me for any of what you gave or did for me following an office crush.”

“Well, obviously. That came later. You know, what with the,” Martin waved his hand in a there’s-no-way-to-encompass-everything gesture, “everything. You gave me a lot of things to love as time went on, Jon. Even if you were too oblivious to catch them.”

“Like what?”

“A lot. If I listed everything, every moment that added to the pile of reasons I had to love you, we’d be sitting here forever. So, let’s fast-forward again. Go straight to fact. Behold it, Jon. Know what I felt, why I felt it, from start to now. Know it.”

Jon almost said something, then didn’t. He closed his eyes again. And Knew. And Knew, and Knew, and Knew, and Knew, while the static crackled in an informative binge. Even with his eyes pinched shut, tears dribbled down his cheeks. Something that was either a sob or a laugh barked out of him.

Shit.

“Jon?”

“God. God, Martin, you really…”

“Jon, hey, you can stop. Are you okay? Did you—did you See?”

“I…” Jon opened his eyes. They were liquid and vivid with electric jade. “I did. I Saw.”

“Still think you don’t deserve me?”

“I—,” Jon started. Stopped. Sighed. “I do. I think I always will. But!” he said, flinching back with both hands raised in defense as Martin prepared to finally grab and shake him. “But I also Know that feeling is subjective. Opinion. Probably a biased one.”

“Definitely a biased one.”

“Yes. But I also Know for a fact, that you…you want me. You love me. You’re happy with me. Happier than you were before. Almost as happy as I am with you.”

“ _Almost?_ ”

“Yes. Very nearly.” Jon shrugged and unsuccessfully hid a grin. “Objectively speaking.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I asked the Eye and it says I’m happier.”

“Yeah, well I asked the Eye, and it says you’re a liar.”

“Am I? Am I really, Martin Kartin Blackwood?”

“You are.”

Then, because it seemed like the right thing to do—mostly because he wanted to do it—Martin leaned in. Jon leaned too. 

The kiss lasted, lasted, lasted. Time was broken, so Martin had to wonder if it was a minute or an hour, but found he ultimately didn’t care. When they pulled apart, both their faces were hot enough to cook. 

“…Yeah, it’s me, I’m still happier.”

“Liar.”

“Am not.”

“Slander and libel.”

“Nope.”

“I’m going to report you to HR, Mr. Sims. See if I don’t.”

Jon put on his best scowl, only slightly spoiled by the upturned corners of his lips. 

“ _Martin,_ ” he grated out. Then laughed as Martin cracked and buried his face in his hands. “God, that actually does it for you, doesn’t it?”

“I’ve made a mistake. You have too much power now.”

“Well, I’ll not use it if you don’t request it. Ha, Georgie had a similar problem, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. When we first met, she thought I was one of the professors. That carried over to our relationship, you know, after she realized I was a student, but before I figured out I was asexual. Bad professor and worse pupil.”

“Oh, Mr. Sims,” Martin said in his best, worst falsetto. “I’m going to fail the course, what ever can I do to pass..?”

“God.” It was Jon’s turn to hide himself in his hands. “You’re weird. You people are weird and I will never understand the arcane machinations that make you tick.”

“Jon sexy.”

“Ha.”

“Jon adorable.”

“Wrong.”

“I asked the Eye. It’s confirmed. I checked post-apocalyptic Google for ‘adorable’ and you were the first hit that popped up.”

“Stop.”

“Never.”

By then both of them were grinning like idiots and glad of it. They stood again, stretching. Martin took Jon’s hand before he could take his. 

“I love you, Jon.”

“I love you too.”

“Oh, and for the record, any Eyes, avatars, et cetera listening in?” Martin reached over and grabbed the tape recorder hanging from Jon’s other hand. He brought the plastic up close to his mouth. “Deserving is subjective, but I very much non-subjectively call dibs on this man. I want him, I spent half a decade pining for him, I got Galahaded out of the goddamn Lonely by him. I am living the paranormal romance dream and I will fight whoever tries to ruin this for me.” Martin handed the tape recorder back. “Just so we’re all clear.”

“Crystal.” Jon smiled. “Though I doubt you have any competition.”

“Do not open this can of worms, Jon. I am armed with a lifetime of magical schlock romance novels, and I will use them.”

“I don’t follow.”

The can of worms was opened and Jon was subjected to a whole new diatribe concerning how many boxes he apparently ticked off for the ideal, improbably endearing, supernaturally-endowed boyfriend. Eventually a comparison was made to _Beauty and the Beast_ and Martin began singing “Tale as Old as Time,” as off-key as possible, forgetting the lyrics a third of the way through. Jon obligingly took the bait, Knew the lyrics in whole, and sang it properly. Martin hit record on his phone.

They carried on this way, hand in hand, toward the Staring horizon.


End file.
